by Lilia Moon
I grit my teeth as my ass rumbles again. It’s killing me to keep quiet, and not for the reasons most people would think.
I want to make noise. I want everyone in this room to hear. I live to push people out of their sexual comfort zones and into the big, wide world of pleasure, because so very many people could be happier than they are and have no idea what’s possible. I’d be happy to come like a freight train right now and sprinkle happy, orgasmic, kinky pixie dust on everyone here.
But those aren’t the rules.
The rules are that we leave the innocents lying peacefully on their bolsters and blankets and don’t run any orgasmic trains into how they see the world. I can’t believe I set a limit like that. All I really meant to do was rule out the grocery aisle.
Not because I think veggies are innocent. There’s just no way eggplants aren’t kinky.
My ass is back to being demented again, this time with short, sharp bursts that feel far too much like sex and drive all thoughts of eggplants really far away. Cocks are way better than eggplants, and Jackson moves like a guy who knows how to use his. Or can be taught. Whichever.
I green-lighted penetration. Which means it could happen.
I bite down on my favorite blanket, which is a mistake, because it’s wool, which makes a really crappy gag.
Belatedly, I realize bodies are moving around me. Peacefully, in that slow, respectful way people have when they’ve almost fallen asleep. Clearly they weren’t lying there thinking about some hard, fast anal sex bent over a massage table.
I groan, which sounds somewhat plausibly like I just woke up, and lever myself to my feet. I leave my nest of bolsters and blankets right where they are. I’ll clean up later. I have a Dom to kill first.
He’s waiting for me outside the door, leaning against the wall with his hands in the pocket of his jeans, looking like he picks up chicks outside yin yoga every day of the week. I walk over and nuzzle into his shoulder. “That was mean.”
He chuckles. “What makes you think it’s done?”
My massage table anal-sex fantasy leaps up and down, frantically waving its arms. “What would you like me to do next, Sir?” It’s my politest sub voice. He probably has no idea just how infrequently I use it.
He wraps his arms around me, cuddling me tight, just like the vanilla guy lounging around outside yin yoga might do. “You have work now, yeah?”
More or less. I have some party planning to go over with Gabby, and a drink-mix inventory to redo because I’m pretty sure my brain shouldn’t be allowed to count things while Jackson is copping a feel. However, all those items could happily be pushed aside for massage-table shenanigans. “I can hang out for a bit if you like.”
He drops a kiss into my hair. “Can’t. I have a class to drum for over in West Seattle, but I’ll drop by the club to see you later.”
I snort into his sweater, which is really nice and fuzzy in all the right ways. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
He pats my ass. “This is staying in, so what do you think?”
I hesitate. I have fairly sensitive skin and it won’t handle lube for hours.
His arms squeeze a little tighter. “I read your form. It’s a stainless steel vibe and coconut oil. You’ll be fine.”
Evil, thoughtful Dom. And one who dropped a pretty penny on whatever he stuck up my ass.
Because he sees. Because he pays attention.
I close my eyes and cuddle in. He might think this week is about stripping my ass bare. I’m far too acutely aware of just how many other parts of me are beginning to feel naked.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jackson
I hold the door open for Gabby and shake my head at the plate of cookies in her hand. “Those are going to totally upstage what I brought.”
She grins and slides two off the plate and hands them to me. They’re still warm. This woman has crazy magic. “I came to thank Chloe for the special package she sent home with Daniel. Nobody makes lingerie for grandmothers.”
I know other people tell her she’s the sexiest grandmother they know, but that does grandmothers a disservice. Another lesson of Kengali’s village. Women can be deeply erotic at any age, and any guy who doesn’t support that is really dumb. Fortunately, Daniel isn’t one of them. I take a huge bite of cookie and lean in to kiss Gabby’s cheek. “Nobody makes cookies for bachelor drummers either, so thanks.”
She gives me a smile filled with hints of devious. “I happen to know that Ari makes excellent cookies.”
Villages don’t keep secrets. They don’t know the meaning of the word, especially when you’re trying to romance the village sweetheart. “I’ll do my best to be worthy of them.”
That earns me a very curious glance at my bag and two more cookies, which I hope is Gabby’s way of saying that she approves. She heads off down the hallway to the kitchen. I stand where I am and eat. I’m smart enough not to walk into the lounge with three uneaten cookies in my hand.
Which is how I look like a five-year-old boy when Ari rounds the corner.
She takes one look at me and cracks up laughing. “Let me guess. You know Gabby is here.”
I grin, because there’s no point telling lies when there are cookie crumbs on your face. I hold out the single cookie I haven’t gobbled yet.
She breaks off half and backs away a step as she nibbles it, eyeing me warily. “Band practice isn’t for an hour.”
Smart sub. “Keeping track of where I’m at, are you?”
She snorts and wiggles her ass. “There are reasons.”
I’ve was tempted to walk around the block and see what the range on the remote was like, but I’m discovering that I like seeing the results of my work up close and personal.
I reach into my bag, enjoying her small tremor. Not quite nerves—more like quivery anticipation. Causing that is something I could get used to really fast.
I pull out a small paper bag, which was the closest my apartment ran to wrapping paper. “I brought you a present.”
Her eyes light up, and I bless, yet again, the wisdom of learning with your eyes first. Ari loves presents. Lives for them, goes totally gooey nuts for them—and somehow most people don’t seem to know that. People often bring her things, but it’s cookies or the latest sex toy they found. She appreciates those too, but she already seems to know this is something more personal.
I take her hand and lead her over to a small bench under a window. I want light for this, and Seattle has actually managed to produce a few sunbeams this afternoon. Even the skies are on my side.
I sit her down and hand her what looks like a lunch bag. The effort went into what’s inside, and watching her hold it, stroking the creases in the simple brown paper, is suddenly making me very nervous. I’m not sure either of us are ready for what’s inside.
She’s not tentative when she opens the bag. She dives in like a kid who just had to wait ten years for Christmas, and gets the contents all the way out before they register.
Her breath catches, and I have a horrible moment of wondering if I’ve pushed way too hard—and then she exhales, and it’s a sound of soft, pure, shocked delight. Her finger reaches out to touch the woven fabric I painstakingly sewed onto a set of boring black leather cuffs. “Jackson.” A whisper. One that sounds full of tears.
I wait. If I’ve watched well enough, she’ll see all the layers.
She looks at me and her eyes nearly swamp me. “This is like your bag. The beautiful one.”
The one I made in Africa that she touches every time she sees it. “It’s cloth that I wove around the same time. It was supposed to be a strap for the bag, except it took six months to make this much and I was going to die before it was long enough to be a strap.”
Her fingers trace the intricate pattern work that has more of my blood, sweat, and tears in it than anyone would ever assume from looking at it. There was literally a half inch left when I finished stitching it onto the cuffs. Somehow, the leather took my unsteady, drunken wea
ving and turned it into something amazing.
Her finger moves to the leather, tracing the top edge of one of the cuffs. She looks at me again, and this time, there’s something deeply vulnerable riding in her eyes. “These are my favorite cuffs.”
Someone has not given this woman enough presents. “I know.” I probably could have asked any Dom in the club and found out, because that’s the kind of detail people here pay attention to, but I watched. These are the model she picks for herself every time. “I oiled them, but they might be a little stiff yet.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ari
He’s just entirely overwhelmed me. Again. He’s got a wild talent for it. I lean into him, needing the contact. Needing him to wrap around my softness, because I have a question and it’s not going to be an easy one for either of us but I need to ask, because he’s a baby Dom and it’s entirely possible he doesn’t know what he just did. What a pair of cuffs from a Dom to a sub usually means.
I swallow and tip my eyes up to meet his. “They’re beautiful, Jackson. Tell me what they mean.”
He smiles. “More than we’re maybe ready for. Less than what I think you just got worried about.”
I push off his chest a little. Baby Doms aren’t supposed to be this good at mind-reading. “Say more about that, sexy, confusing man.”
He grins. “I don’t mind confusing you.”
I make a face. “Duh.”
He laughs, which gets him so many bonus points. So many. He likes me goofy, and that’s such a part of who I like to be, even in the deeply intense moments. Which this one is, even though my insides are doing their very best to turn into warm caramel.
He frees up a hand to stroke my hair. “There are no strings. No expectations.” He pauses and kisses the top of my head. “I wanted you to have something that’s a part of me. It felt right.”
He sewed me freaking cuffs with his own hands. Cuffs my covetous self wants on my wrists right this minute. Cuffs that for most people would be the kinky equivalent of asking me to go steady at the very least. And I can feel, deep inside me, that I would welcome that. Which is fairly earth-shattering news. I back away again just enough to get a good look at his face and blurt out the last thing that really matters. “We haven’t had sex yet.”
He laughs, and it shakes some of the cookie crumbs off his chin. “Is that a prerequisite to giving you presents?”
I shake my head. “No. Sorry, that was a really dumb thing to say.”
His tucks my hair behind my ear. “I’ve been watching you for a long time, Ari. It’s okay if you’re not where I am, or if you never get there. These are a gift, straight out.”
They’re a magnificent one. They’re exquisite and they’re totally me.
I breathe out. He’s not attaching any strings—but my insides just did. “I’d like to take that week we agreed to and make it open-ended. See if we can grow into whatever this is.”
His eyes close. “Wow. Thank you.”
I cuddle in close again, because this time we both need it.
His hand strokes my hair, soft and worshipful and soothing. “I don’t know exactly what that means with your work here.”
I manage a strangled laugh. “Believe it or not, I don’t know either.” Exclusive isn’t really a thing I do. “A lot of that depends on what you’re comfortable with. I know how to have my heart in one place and my pussy in many, but I’m not saying that’s how this has to go.”
He breathes out. In. “I know you’re a deep part of the fabric of this place, and I’m not asking you to pull out of it. I’ve been watching you scene with other people for months, and I’ve walked myself through most of the bullshit I was carrying around that.”
This man is a gift as exquisite as his cuffs. “I didn’t know.” Which is shocking. It’s not boasting to say that I know everything that goes on in this place. Most days it’s just simple truth.
I feel his chuckle more than hear it. “I worked pretty hard to make sure you didn’t.”
The lack of ego in that is astounding. And the sacrifice. I know what I do at the club. Watching couldn’t have been easy, no matter how many vanilla preconceptions he talked himself out of while he sat on his stool and drummed. I’ve spent my whole adult life riding the sharp edge of personal growth. I’m beginning to realize I’m looking at a man who’s made that same commitment at least as deeply as I have.
Which means I’m going to let go of some things that normally feel pretty important to me. Not because he’s asked. Maybe because he didn’t. “I need to be able to keep running training sessions and demos, but there are lines I can draw. Tell me what makes you most uncomfortable to watch.”
His eyes are dark and steady. “This isn’t about making me comfortable.”
Stubborn, beautiful man. I hold up the cuffs. “Tell me when you would want me to take these off.”
I can see that hit him in the gut. “I don’t want to make you smaller, Ari. I don’t.”
Baby Dom. Brave and wise and still so very new to my world. “Limits don’t make me smaller. Not if we set them for the right reasons. I need to know, Jackson. I’m about to draw some lines here, and I can guess, but they’ll be better lines for both of us if you tell me the truth.”
He laughs a little. “Feet, meet fire.”
I tap his cheek because he’s adorable and I want to gobble him like Gabby’s cookies.
He nods and swallows. “I had to walk away from watching you have sex. Which probably makes me a possessive thug.”
About damn time. “No sex with other people. That goes both ways. Keep talking.”
He doesn’t look all that reassured yet. “You giving other people orgasms is okay, I think. Especially in a training context.”
That would trip up a lot of people. It isn’t what’s scraping on him, but something still is. “But?”
He grimaces. “I’m trying to get my words right. I want to say that you coming for other people is hard, and it is, but some times are worse than others for me.”
This man has more ability to look unflinchingly in the mirror than almost anyone I know. I stay quiet and let him look.
He nods again, his face relaxing. He’s sorted something out. “The hardest ones are when you’re not all there. When you’re backing away or in trainer mode or you’re the submissive in the scene but you’re not really submitting. When you can’t, because the Dom is too new or too clueless or hasn’t figured out that he needs to push you harder.”
Dots line up really fast and draw a crystal-clear picture. “That’s why you’ve been such a hard-ass when I try that with you.”
He nods slowly. “I think those times make you smaller.”
All the air leaves my chest. “They make me bigger too. It matters to me to help people learn.”
“I know.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “But it’s the part where you get smaller that’s hard for me to watch.”
When this man gets all his skills down, he’s going to be one fucking scary Dom. “Okay. No orgasms for me. No sexual touch where I’m the recipient.”
He shakes his head fiercely. “That’s not what I need.”
Fierce, exquisite, beautiful man. I cup his cheeks. “It’s what I need, Sir.”
He stares at me.
I let him see just how vulnerable I am in this moment. “I know. I’m the chick who pushes all the edges and kicks possessive-guy crap in the knees.”
He leans his forehead into mine, eyes wry. “Yup.”
And he was prepared to let me keep being that. “This is what I want. For me. It feels really nice that it lines up with what will be more comfortable for you, but this is about me. I’d like to hold the intense sexual energy between us for a while. See where it goes.”
He breathes out slowly.
I take his hands. “I touch other people and make them come, and I’d like to keep doing that in a demo or trainee context, because it’s a really important part of what I do here. But I want you to know that isn’t
the same experience for me. It’s not impersonal, but it’s not the same as what’s happening between us, even if it might look similar on the surface.”
He chuckles. “I’ve seen what you do to some of your subs. They’re very brave people.”
My insides melt a little more. I grin, totally pleased he’s watched my Domme scenes too.
And somehow, no longer surprised.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jackson
Damon pours a glass full of pink and pushes it down the bar at me. “So how many people have threatened to kill you so far?”
I raise an eyebrow and take a sip. Clearly I don’t have enough sugar in me to make sense of this conversation yet.
Harlan steals Damon’s drink, which isn’t pink. “You’re chasing the woman most of us consider a little sister, and some of us are dumb enough to think she might need protection.”
My brain catches up. Fast. “In that case, Quint is in line ahead of the two of you. And probably Mattie and Sam, although they haven’t said anything and they wouldn’t bother using something as simple as their fists.”
Harlan contemplates his knuckles. “There’s something to be said for a good, simple fist.”
I manage not to snicker. Harlan’s a big teddy bear. “Scorpio will be mad if you hurt her drummer.”
He snorts. “If you hurt Ari, Scorpio will get to you long before I do.”
I down half my drink. “If you guys are done with the intimidate-Jackson part of the program, I’d appreciate any advice you might have.”
Damon’s grin at Harlan is wry. “Told you so.”
Harlan shakes his head at me. “You’re supposed to be pissed off and growling at us right now.”
That would be a total waste of air. I can’t imagine two guys less likely to be scared off by bear noises. “I’m supposed to be a lot of things. The only one I’m interested in is being a better Dom.”
Harlan just grunts.